


weltmeister samma

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2014, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Manu and Miro celebrate the world cup win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weltmeister samma

**Author's Note:**

> I looked at [this picture](http://40.media.tumblr.com/baa60048112937f638bdf6680b2631eb/tumblr_nlqilyorrI1u2rb6do2_400.jpg) too many times and a pwp fell out

"Hey--Be careful!" Miro says, as Manu half trips over nothing and stumbles forwards through the doorway into his room, his shoulder slamming painfully into the wall and Miro's steadying arm tightening around his back the only thing keeping him on his feet. He's making a good effort at sounding chiding, but even through the blurry haze of too many capirinhas Manu can hear the barely-restrained laughter in his voice, the same furious, victorious joy that's running through all of them like the pounding beat of the music that's still too-loud outside.

"Nah, I'm always careful," he answers, grinning sideways. "That's why we're here, right?"

Any of the rest of them - well, maybe not the babies, but most of them - would banter right back, but even tonight Miro Klose won't talk himself up: he just leans companionably into Manu's side and turns his head against the nape of his neck so that Manu can feel the curve of his smile tickling against his hair. "We did it," he says, his breath nearly as hot with cachaça and lime as Manu's own. _"Weltmeister samma."_

Manu has lost track of how many times everyone has said that in the last few hours, but it burns through him anyway, lighting him up all over again. He doesn't care that Miro's Thomas impression leaves something to be desired or that what he's feeling, what he's about to do, is probably a step above even the night's prevailing level of insanity. "So celebrate like it, opa," he says, half-turning into Miro and shoving him back against the wall instead. The side of his cheek slides against Miro's as he leans into him with the scratch of stubble on stubble; he feels Miro's jaw flex as he swallows reflexively, and then Miro's long, broad hands are at the small of his back, stroking slowly, soothingly upwards until they stop just below his shoulderblades.

"Manu, what--" Miro says, his words catching in an abrupt half-gasp as Manu leans in with more of his weight, his hands braced on the wall behind Miro to keep himself steady. Miro's throat smells good beneath the sugarcane and rum, like sweat and soap, and there seems no reason in the world why Manu shouldn't kiss him there, just at the corner of his jaw. So he does, flicking his tongue out to taste the salt of his skin. Miro's body tenses under him, his fingers digging with surprising force into Manu's back for a brief moment before he gives a tiny, shuddering sigh and lets his head tilt back against the wall.

"Weltmeister," Manu says against the wet patch he's left on Miro's throat, just to say it himself, and then kisses him again, lower down on his throat, scraping his teeth over the soft skin. Then it's his turn to make an undignified noise as one of Miro's strong thighs shoves between his own, pressing against his half-hard cock with surprising intent. He thrusts against it instinctively, a quick flex of his hips that makes his breath hiss between his teeth as Miro keeps up that steady, even pressure; then again, deliberately this time, rubbing himself shamelessly against Miro's thigh, feeling Miro's pulse start to trip faster against his mouth. "I thought about this," he mumbles.

Miro's hands drop slowly downwards again, tucking up under the edge of Manu's shirt, toying at the band of his shorts. "Eh?" he says, sounding infuriatingly calm.

"This," Manu says, and thrusts against him again, hard enough to shove him bodily into the wall, hard enough that they'd have toppled over backwards without it. "When you jumped on me -- fuck --" Miro has finally worked his hands down the back of Manu's shorts, fingers splaying across the top of his ass and pulling him forwards until they're pressed tight together and he can suddenly feel Miro's dick against his own thigh, hard and unmistakable, a reality that changes everything and nothing. _"Fuck,"_ he says again, burying his face into the base of Miro's long throat and biting down hard, sucking an ill-advised sloppy bruise deep into the skin there.

He almost doesn't hear Miro say "I thought about it too," but he's hyperaware of the way Miro's cock feels between them, jerking slightly with the admission, or with the pain of Manu's teeth, he doesn't know, he doesn't know if it _matters._

This is happening, he thinks giddily, and drops his own hands from the wall to Miro's narrow waist. "You want to?" he says finally, belatedly, when he has to pull back for breath.

"Yes," Miro says. He's staring at Manu's mouth, now that there's an inch between them again; his eyes flick guiltily back up as he seems to sense Manu staring back at him, and then he's leaning forwards, pressing their lips together in a strange first kiss that's awkward and tangled and leaves Manu breathless and impatient in seconds.

"Now? Here?" he asks, pulling away just enough to talk, close enough that Miro kisses him again instead of answering, his tongue sweeping across Manu's lower lip, slow and too lingering for how much Manu wants him -- for how hard they both are, for how long Manu's been half-thinking about this, about having Miro's thick thighs around his waist, their overheated bodies pressed together. 

When he pulls back again, Miro still doesn't say anything, but even like this Manu can see a mute hunger in his eyes, a question trapped behind Miro's too-polite sensibilities. He licks his lips, tracing the path of Miro's tongue with his own, and Miro's hips twitch underneath him just enough to be an answer. Grinning, he pushes his face into Miro's neck, and says into his ear: "Want me to suck you off first?"

Tomorrow there's going to be finger-shaped bruises all over his back, but that only makes this all the hotter. "God," Miro says, "oh--" and then he's got a fist in Manu's shirt instead, tugging him downwards until Manu's on his knees and Miro's hands have come up to bite into his shoulders. "Yes."

Manu doesn't suck cock that often, but he's done it before, knows how it works. He presses his cheek against Miro's track pants, nuzzling hard up the side of his cock and listening for the helpless stutter of his breath. He sounds good, he smells good, he feels almost as good like this, against Manu's lips and hands, as he had against his dick. Suddenly impatient again, Manu reaches up and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Miro's pants and briefs, pulling them both down over his hips and leaning back in before he's even got them down to his knees, licking a broad wet stripe up Miro's cock with the flat of his tongue.

"Oh fuck," Miro says softly from above him, barely a whisper, but hearing it -- hearing Miro driven to swearing already -- it turns Manu on enough that he has to slide his other hand between his own legs, squeeze himself hard. When he looks up, Miro's watching him do it, his gray eyes focused and dark. "Go on," he says finally, and Manu realizes that he's been kneeling there with his mouth open, just staring.

"You like it?" he says, like he hadn't just completely spaced out looking up at him, like maybe he meant to do it, and covers his tracks by yanking Miro's pants the rest of the way down to the ground. He gives his cock another good lick, just so that when he takes him in hand and starts jerking him it's nice and sloppy-wet, so Miro's not missing out on anything when Manu dips his head and presses a kiss to the inside of one of those broad thighs, right at the trailing edge of a long, half-faded bruise left by some tackle or other.

Miro's trying hard to stay still, he can feel it, the tight shudder of his hips beneath Manu's hand and mouth, the way one of Miro's hands has crept into the hair at the back of his neck. "Yes," Miro says. It takes Manu a second or two to remember he'd even asked a question, and then he doesn't care anymore because Miro's pulling his hair gently, pulling him closer so that his face is buried in the strong crease of Miro's thigh, and Miro's saying "Touch yourself, Manu, I want you to--"

"Fuck," he says, muffled into unintelligibility -- but he does, he palms himself roughly, tighter than his grip on Miro, trying to rein himself in. It works, if only a little; he groans against Miro's skin, breathing in the hot sweaty scent of him, biting hard into the thick, solid muscle, leaving teeth marks and another deep bruise: _Manu-was-here._ Miro's fingers dig into his neck, slipping in his hair, urging him on instead of pushing him away. He leans up an inch or two and bites down again, licking across the new mark when he's done, then turning his head as much as Miro's grip will allow to tongue messily across his balls. Miro's cock jerks in his hand, precome dripping down through Manu's fingers, smearing across their skin until Manu can taste it as he licks upwards, strong and bitter-salty over his tongue.

It makes him want more. He lets go of Miro's cock and sits back enough to lick his fingers clean one at a time, chasing the taste; Miro tugs at his hair, hard enough that it's almost painful, and Manu glances up again. Miro's lips are bitten red and parted slightly, his breathing fast; Manu can't help grinning at the effect, at the soft flush that's crept up his cheeks.

"That's good," Miro says, lifting his hand from Manu's shoulder and pressing his thumb flat across Manu's smile, gently knocking his hand away from his mouth. He traces his lower lip slowly with the pad of it, then moves his hand to his cock and strokes himself, a couple long, even motions from base to tip that make his lashes flutter and Manu's mouth water. Miro must see that in his face because he smiles just a little, still looking down at him, as he sets his cock against Manu's lips. "Ah-- here."

Manu stays still, lets him press his cock into his mouth, savoring the weight, the taste against his tongue, the slow, steady way Miro feeds it to him, pushing first against his cheek and then deeper until the thick head nudges against the back of his throat. Miro gives him just a little more, a gentle push of his hips, and Manu braces his hand on Miro's leg and starts to suck. The hand in his hair is still almost painfully tight, but not enough that he can't move; he shifts back a little and then forward again, swallowing hard around him.

He can't fit it all in, Miro's too big, it's been too long since he did this last, but he tries, half-choking himself before he pulls off, gasping, and wraps his hand around the base. It makes it harder to keep his balance, but when he sucks him back into his mouth Miro moans, low and needy, and it's more than worth it. He swipes his tongue across the head of Miro's cock once more -- Miro gasps something he can't understand, his fingers going loose in Manu's hair -- and sits back on his heels again, letting Miro's cock go with an obscene slurping _pop._

Miro's still staring down at him, face hungry and intent, and Manu surges back to his feet, yanking his shorts off and kicking them half across the room before he pins him against the wall again, shoving him into it harder than he probably needs to. "Wanna fuck you now," he says, and Miro makes a short breathless noise and pulls Manu back against himself, their cocks slipping against each other in a slick hot mess of spit, sweat, and precome, and says _yes_ again.

There's condoms and lube in Manu's bathroom kit, but it might as well be five miles away instead of five meters. Instead of moving, he runs a hand down Miro's flank, over his narrow hip, to palm the thick-muscled curve of his ass and squeeze it hard; Miro groans, his legs spreading under Manu, one sliding slowly up the outside of Manu's thigh.

"Here," Manu says, echoing him, and pushes two fingers into Miro's mouth, rough, feeling the sharp scrape of his teeth, the shocked stillness of his lips before he gets with it and sucks hard on Manu's fingers, slicking them good. "Like this, against the wall--yeah?" He takes the muffled sounds and the twist of Miro's tongue between his fingers as agreement; pushes them deeper into Miro's mouth, feeling the shudder as much as hearing it when he moans again. "Bare. Just like this." 

When he pulls his hand free, Miro's thin lips are reddened, half-bruised, his eyes gone dazed and unfocused, and for half a second Manu wants to kiss him again. Instead he pins Miro hard against the wall and reaches down, sliding his fingers over Miro's hole, rubbing at it, letting the tip of one slide in, to the first knuckle, then the second.

Miro's tight around it, so tight he thinks he ought to stop -- but when he does, when he tries to pull away, Miro's hands find his shoulders, holding him still; he shakes his head, his tongue flicking out across his lips, and says "Pl- _ease,"_ his breath catching hard in the middle of the word, and again, "please."

Manu can't say no to that. He pushes his finger back in, adding the second along with it, and watches Miro's mouth drop open, watches him gasp silently as Manu works his fingers slowly all the way into him. "God," he says, burying his face back in Miro's throat. He slides his fingers out an inch and shoves them back in, once, then again and again until Miro finally begins to relax around him, his hands clenched bruisingly hard into Manu's shoulders instead, until Miro leans his cheek against Manu's hair and says "Manu, fuck me," in a low, quiet, breathless voice that makes Manu's head swim. 

He has his free hand under Miro's thigh before he's even thought about it, supporting him enough that Miro half-jumps, half-climbs up him, wrapping his thighs around Manu's waist. Manu pulls his fingers free, his own hand too-tight on Miro's thigh. He spits into his hand, smears it over his cock, and sets it against him. "Now?"

"Yes," Miro says, his hands sliding from Manu's shoulders to cup his face as Manu shifts forward, pushing in with one long thrust and pulling Miro's hips down to meet him until he's as deep as he can get, his nails digging deep into Miro's thighs as they shudder against him, Miro's thumbs against his jaw almost too gentle a contrast.

Manu can't stop watching him, staring up at him as Miro's brows draw together, the lines in his forehead deepening as his eyes fall closed. He hefts him up a little, lets him sink back down -- Miro's as tight around his cock as he had been around his fingers, his body perfectly balanced against Manu's, but it's the tiny gasp that he pulls from Miro's throat as he slams back in that's the best, just a soft little _"--eh--"_ as Manu's cock fills him up again. It sounds like nothing else so much as the way he stammers sometimes when he's caught off guard, but like this, half-naked in Manu's arms and taking him so eagerly, it's suddenly the hottest thing Manu's ever heard.

He wants it again, wants him to never stop; he braces himself and thrusts harder, letting his head rest against Miro's shoulder as he fucks him. Miro's hands wander up into his hair, ruffling through it, holding him there, and then Manu finds the right angle or the right depth or something because he does it again and again, his breath stuttering out of him as Manu tries his best to keep up the pace. "God," he says, "eh-- Manu -- please--" and Manu has to bite his lip hard to keep control, to not lose it right there.

"Come on, Miro," he says, and if it's muffled against Miro's shirt he doesn't think either of them cares. Miro's still making that fucking noise every time he bottoms out, his thighs like iron around Manu's waist, like even if he wasn't braced against the wall he could hold himself just like this for Manu's cock -- fuck, he probably could. His dick's trapped between them, sliding against their shirts as Manu fucks him, and Manu wants to jerk him off, to feel how close he is, but the angle's just wrong for that. "Fucking come on," he says again instead, "come on, come for me, do it."

Miro twists against him, using the wall for leverage to push himself harder down onto his cock with each thrust, but he leaves his fingers tangled up in Manu's hair, doesn't reach down to touch himself: he comes just like that, silently and without a hand on him, his come soaking through Manu's shirt in hot wet pulses. Manu tries to fuck him through it, the same quick hard thrusts he seems to like best, but he can only keep the rhythm so long before it's too much. The tight, perfect clench of Miro's body, the slick of his come slowly dripping down Manu's skin, the silent shudders underneath him -- he shifts his grip from Miro's thighs to his ass, spreading him wide so he can get that last little bit deeper, nearly overbalancing them as he shoves all the way in and comes so hard he almost blacks out.

"Fuck," he says, a minute later when he's caught his breath, pressing his face against Miro's shoulder and laughing, he doesn't even know why -- the pure release of it, maybe, the intensity of the whole night, the strangeness of it all ending up like this. Miro smooths long fingers down the nape of his neck, wiping sweat down and off onto the collar of his shirt; then he's laughing too, a quiet chuckle, and slowly, a little gingerly, unwinding his thighs from Manu's waist and sliding to the floor.

He looks a little embarrassed, almost sheepish, but when Manu kisses him again, unable to stop himself, he leans into it willingly enough for a few seconds before pulling away and stripping off his shirt, wiping himself off with the sleeve and letting it fall. "I'll use your shower, if that's all right," he says, his smile going a bit wry as he brushes his fingertips gently against Manu's side, around across his stomach and the dark stain of his come.

"Yeah, fine," Manu says, somewhat distracted by the touch; as Miro turns to go, he struggles out of the shirt, smacking himself accidentally in the face with the wet spot and almost choking on another laugh. By the time he manages to get it off, Miro's in the bathroom with the shower water already running, but he's left the door open, and it feels more like an invitation than just the courtesy of it being Manu's own room. No regrets, not tonight, he thinks as he follows him in, not for either of them. For now, the future can look after itself.


End file.
